A Man's Home
by KCS
Summary: Series of one-shots. Holmes's thoughts surrounding his return to London in 1894. As always, not slash. Part Two of the 'Greater Love' trilogy, this one Granada-verse.
1. London at Last

_**A Man's Home**__**

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**A/N - if you haven't read _Greater Love_, then some of this may not make sense to you. It is slightly AUish. In other words, I tweaked the Canon. **

_- gasps from horrified readers -_

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_London_. Its precisely ordered streets teeming with busy citizens. The damp, yellow fog that rolls in from the Thames with unflagging regularity. The vile alleys of the dock areas and the stately glamour of the theatres and financial districts. The old but ornate government buildings along Pall Mall. The small but pristinely kept parks and squares. The chaotic world of the railway and Underground stations.

Baker Street.

I stand in the compartment of my railway carriage, my head close to the glass, eager to catch my first glimpse of the city I so loved and had not seen in so long. We have not much farther to go, and then I shall be home.

Home. The word yet sounds strange to me. I have not had a home in nearly three years. Or should I say I have had countless homes?

No, for a man's home is the place he can look forward to returning to after he has had a long day. London, 221b Baker Street, is my home, and I have not seen it since that fateful day three years ago, when Professor Moriarty forced me to flee London in order to save the life of my dearest friend.

Watson. I smile at the mere thought of his name. How much I have missed him! I can hardly wait to see his face when I miraculously reappear before him, safe and sound. My love of the dramatic is spinning a thousand ideas through my mind about how I should reveal myself to him for the first time.

But a frown crosses my face as I realize that I have some very serious explaining to do. He will not understand why I had to remain in exile for three years, for he still knows nothing of the bargain I reached with Professor Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls.

I cannot explain my long absence without dredging up that whole sordid affair, something I am loathe to do. The emotions wrapped around that case are not a part of my memory I would willingly recall after so long.

Which means, I shall have to fabricate yet another story for him. And I doubt I can do so without seriously wounding his sensitive nature.

Poor fellow, I wonder how he is holding up. I still remember the day last winter when, while in Paris on a personal matter, I saw a copy of the _Times_, in which was the small, concise paragraph telling the world that Mrs. Mary Watson had died in childbirth. Poor Watson! I knew then that I had to find a way to return to London soon. I so wish I could have been there when he needed someone, as he so often has for me. But to return prematurely would have been his own death-sentence.

Ha! My sobering thoughts are pushed aside for the moment as I see the buildings of London in the distance for the first time. An unaccustomed excitement fills my heart at the prospect of being back in my city once more.

Satisfied, I sit back in my seat and pull out the collection of newspaper clippings Mycroft has been forwarding to me for the last week or so. He had seen the accounts of this Ronald Adair's murder and immediately drew the correct conclusions. Only Von-Herder's air-gun could possibly have fired the shot that killed that unfortunate young man.

And only one man, we both knew, could be behind the sights of said gun.

Colonel Sebastian Moran. The late Professor's second in command. I had exchanged Moran's freedom for Watson's safety that day at the Falls three years ago. Moriarty had instructed his right-hand man that no harm was to come to Watson _unless_ I returned to London.

I was returning, but for the purpose of putting Moran where he could harm neither Watson nor I ever again. And it had to be done carefully, so very carefully.

I had to let Moran know I was back so that he would try to eliminate me for good, but I had to somehow make sure Watson would be out of harm's way in the interim. Which meant I should have to keep him in sight every moment of the morrow, when my plans would come to a head.

I hear the warning for Victoria Station being shouted in the corridor, and I hastily begin to don my disguise. No one would be expecting to see a dead man in London, but I could take no chances, not with Watson's life as the price for any slip-up of mine.

I promptly quash the thrill and elation I am feeling at the prospect of being back in London after a three-year hiatus. My emotions can and will most definitely have to wait.

I have work to do.

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**Will be continued... thanks for reading! **


	2. Brotherly Love

_**Brotherly Love**__**

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Pall Mall. One of those stately streets I had missed so during the last three years. Although I was having to keep a careful watch around me for any of Moran's henchmen, I could not help but feel an unusual happiness I had not been a part of for quite some time.

After determining that no one was watching the entrances of Mycroft's rooms, I entered the house. Striding up the stairs to his quarters, my glee at being back in London brought my impish side to the fore – and I decided to surprise him by picking the lock on his outer door.

"My dear brother!" I cried, slamming the door behind me with a little too much force.

He was seated at his writing desk across the room, and at the sound of my voice he spun round on his swiveled chair so rapidly that I thought the springs might break.

"Sherlock, honestly," he sputtered, dabbing at the fresh ink-stain on his otherwise immaculate shirt-front.

"I deduce you were engaged in some important writing when I arrived, brother mine," I offered, trying to repress a snigger at his disgruntled countenance.

He growled something I was probably better off not hearing and imperiously waved me to a chair.

"Well, are you not glad to see me, Mycroft?" I asked.

"Glad? Yes, I suppose," he replied, laying down his pen and turning to give me his full attention, "but hardly surprised, Sherlock. It certainly took you long enough. I fully expected you yesterday evening."

"I had to finish up that research in Montpelier first, Mycroft – I could not leave the scientists without explaining the derivitives I had been working on."

"Well, now that you _are_ here, I suppose you have a plan for getting Moran put out of the way?"

"Tell me, brother, what new developments have there been?"

"You always did have that annoying habit of answering a simple question with one of your own, Sherlock," he sighed, leaning lazily back in his chair.

"Yes, quite. What _are_ the new developments?"

"The inquest is to be held this afternoon, Sherlock, at two o'clock. It is nearly ten now. You shall have to move rather quickly if you intend to get to Baker Street, attempt to explain matters to your worthy landlady, and then reach the courtroom before that time."

I frowned. That gave me no time to see Watson, and no time to place a watch over him.

As the Doctor has stated in his memoirs of my cases, the ability to deduce a man's thoughts was one of the many talents my brother and I shared, and Mycroft read my features without effort.

"Watson is one of the principle witnesses at the inquest, Sherlock. No harm will come to him in the courtroom; I would suggest you follow him from there, if by that time Moran knows you are back in London."

I agreed – I would need to make sure he came to no harm after Moran realized I had returned. Then a delayed thought struck me.

"A principle witness?"

"Yes, Sherlock. The Doctor has been sporadically assisting the officials as a police-surgeon in recent months. I suppose he wanted to keep some of the old ties in place. Actually, he has been quite instrumental in the wrapping up of several pretty little problems in the past year or so," Mycroft replied. "You would have been proud of him, brother."

I colored uncomfortably at yet another realization. I had been gone for so long – how many other things had changed in my absence? Would Watson even welcome my return to life,being willing to give up any routine he had fallen into in my absence?

I was no longer a part of life, his or anyone else's, in London, and the fact hit me with a sickening impact. I was a stranger here.

I suddenly felt the need to be among familiar surroundings. I stood to go.

"Sherlock," my brother called after me.

"Yes, Mycroft?"

He looked at me for a moment studiously. When he did speak, his tone was no longer the least bit jesting.

"Be gentle, Sherlock," he said simply. At my raised eyebrows, he went on, echoing my previous thoughts. "Be careful, brother. London has changed, and the people you love have changed. Be very careful."

I realized what he meant.

"I shall," I promised, and with that I left his rooms, in a considerably more contemplative mood than I had entertained on my walk to Pall Mall.

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**To Be Continued...**


	3. A Man's Home Is His Castle

_**A Man's Home Is His Castle**_

**Disclaimer:** Obviously, I own nothing except my own AU of the_ Final Problem._ _**

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I stood for one breathless moment on the corner of Baker Street and Oxford Street, looking down the familiar road with something akin to nostalgia or fondness – both emotions were somewhat foreign to my nature and the unusual sensation was not altogether an unwelcome one.

I strode down the street in my simple disguise, watching for the man or men I suspected would be keeping guard over 221b. As I walked, the thought crossed my mind – what would these people say if they knew Sherlock Holmes was walking past them to his own old lodgings after being presumed dead for three years?

I nearly laughed out loud at the dramatic possibilities of the thing. Then my mirth abruptly died as I neared my flat and recognized the lounger opposite the ground floor windows.

To all appearances, he might just have been a common loafer, except that I recognized him for one of the smaller fry left over from the Moriarty gang. Jack Porter, garroter and general all-round blackguard. Moran must have wondered if the news of Adair's murder would reach me, and he had stationed a sentry to watch the house.

I had to get word to Moran before the inquest, but only just before the inquest. He was to be a witness as well as Watson, and I knew Moran would not have the time nor the stupidity to attempt anything on the key witness – a police-surgeon, no less; I still do not get Watson's limits – until a verdict was reached about Adair's murder.

I decided it would be safe to be recognized based on that prognosis, and so I made quite a show of fumbling in my pockets for my keys, which I had kept with me for some reason for these three years, and letting myself into the flat, carrying my carpetbag.

Mrs. Hudson did not hear me enter, evidently, and so I made my way up the stairs quietly. I remembered the day I had asked Watson how many there were and he had no idea. Thanks to his interest in the fact, every reader of the _Strand Magazine_ now knew there were seventeen. I smiled fondly as I gently pushed open the door of my old sitting room.

It smelled of disuse, a musty odor, and there was a dreadfully precise tidiness that never had been seen in the years that I had lived there. Resisting the sudden urge to throw a few files or scrapbooks around to make the room look lived in, I tossed my disguise onto the old familiar leather sofa and looked round me.

My gaze fell on all the familiar landmarks I had tried so hard to recall in those homesick days of my exile – my bedroom, the deal table and bench with all my chemical equipment, Watson's old desk where he always sat scribbling away at his latest romantic adventure, our two chairs across from each other close to the fire, that old Persian slipper containing my now three-year-old tobacco, my violin case leaning neatly against the wall. Finally my eyes traveled to the painting of the Reichenbach Falls that hung above the fireplace.

How ironic, that I had spent ten years of my life before the events of '91 staring into what could have been my own grave but for a bit of luck and the generosity of Providence.

I walked over to the picture and gently fingered the black drapes that hung on either side of the painting. I briefly wondered who had hung them, Mrs. Hudson or Watson, and what their thoughts had been at the time.

But such things were too depressing to think about now. I was back, back in London, in my own house, in the city I loved and ruled as the king of detectives, and soon all would be right with the world. I stepped over to the window and looked cautiously round the shades.

Porter was gone. Gone to get word to Moran. And I had only a little over an hour and a half to don a suitable disguise and get to the courtroom in time for the inquest.

I walked over to my old chair. Then, just for the feel of it, I sat, cross-legged, in it as I always did, and for one moment felt more at home than I ever had in the last three years.

Until my gaze fell on the empty chair across the hearthrug from me.

Frowning, I arose and stood staring moodily at the painting of Reichenbach once more, my thoughts in turmoil.

It was at this unfortunate juncture that I espied a movement in the mantelpiece mirror and turned round just in time to see Mrs. Hudson enter the room, feather duster in hand. That woman has the absolutely worst possible timing.

I have had very little practice dealing with emotional women, and even less with ones who go into violent hysterics without a word of warning. I must ask Watson later what the best possible course of action is in such a case. It is most definitely his department, not mine.

When my long-suffering landlady had calmed sufficiently for me to assure her I was _not_ a ghost or spirit, and by the time I had enlisted her help for the night's adventure and showed her what I needed done, I found myself with only three-quarters of an hour in which to don a disguise good enough to pass Moran's and Watson's inspection (I was not sure which I was more afraid of recognizing me) and get to the courtroom for the inquest. I had absolutely no time to lose.

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**_To be continued! _**


	4. Familiar Faces

_**Familiar Faces**_

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I made it to the courtroom with several minutes to spare, and so after taking a peep inside and not seeing Watson anywhere, I determined my disguise was good enough to stand outside and I leaned casually against one of the railings to wait for him.

I was in the garb of a withered old bookseller – and my aching back was beginning to remind me that I was a little out of practice with these remote disguises. Under such a head of white hair and my visor, with a device in my teeth that made them deformed in a most repellent manner, I doubted if even Mycroft would have recognized me.

My attention was arrested by a cab pulling up outside the courtroom. And, as I had hoped, the familiar figure of the one man in London I actually was waiting with anticipation to see emerged.

But I was so shocked at Watson's appearance that my staring nearly drew attention to me. He looked so much older than I had remembered.

True, I had not seen him in three years, since that day at the Falls, but still I did not realize what a change time and sorrow had brought to my dearest friend. Mycroft was right – Watson had changed.

I wondered with a good deal of remorse how much of that change I had been responsible for. But what else could I have done? Had Moran thought that Watson knew I was alive, he would have taken evil pleasure in following through with the fate Moriarty had planned for Watson three years ago.

Shaking the thoroughly unpleasant thoughts from my head, I followed a few other people into the courtroom and took a seat in the public section, placing myself at a vantage point where I could see Watson.

I paused for a moment to consider the strangeness of the feelings swirling within my mind at the moment – I, the isolated brain, actually wanting to be close to someone? Was I really the same person now of whom Watson had written in those early days of our association (quoting me, but still) that I was a _"brain without a heart"? _And here I was, wanting so badly to hear the man's voice that I was merely content with just sitting so I could watch him?

I tried to tell myself I was merely concerned for his safety – that I wanted to make sure Moran did not try to get close to him or some such rot. But the curse of having a great intellect is that one cannot convince one's self of something one knows to be false.

My strange thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade. _He_ at least did not look in the least changed - as lean and ferret-faced as ever.

A pang of jealousy so sharp and poignant that it almost frightened me shot through my heart when I saw a smile break across Watson's sombre face as the Scotland Yarder shook his hand and sat down beside him. Had they actually become _friends_ in the three years of my absence? I sternly reined in my rampant emotions, tamping down hard on that irksome one of jealousy.

Mycroft was right. The people I loved had changed. I wondered how much more so than I knew?

I pulled myself together as the inquest commenced. Across the room I spotted Colonel Sebastian Moran, exactly as I remembered him from that fateful day in '91. Aside from a long look that he gave Watson, which the latter was blissfully unaware of, I saw no indication that he meant him any harm. Perhaps three years had changed Moran, as well.

Or perhaps he was merely as good as I was at hiding his true feelings. Which was far more likely.

I was, as Mycroft had said, very proud of my dear Watson. His testimony was lucid and his deduction about the type of gun used was quite sound. That type of revolver would have indeed been the only possibility other than VonHerder's air-gun, of which Watson was completely in ignorance. I bristled at the judge's curt and rude dismissal of Watson's opinions, but I noticed with some discomfiture that Watson merely took it without a sound. The Watson I knew, or thought I knew, would have been annoyed at the very least.

That disturbed me almost more than the evil look I caught Moran sending toward Watson's back as he left the stand. I sat up straighter on my bench and kept a close watch on the proceedings.

Did I really remember things accurately? Perhaps Watson had just always been that uncaring about his opinions and time had merely distorted my memories.

No, impossible. I am Sherlock Holmes. I do not remember things incorrectly. Time and grief have done some serious harm to my friend's vibrant personality, and I shall make it my goal, once this whole mess is straightened out, to restore the sparkle to his eyes and the spring in his steps that I remember so well.

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**_To Be Continued - Next up: the chapter everybody's been waiting for! The climactic confrontation! _**


	5. A Thousand Apologies

_**A Thousand Apologies**_

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"This court records a verdict of willful murder by person or persons unknown."

Unknown, indeed. _Not after tonight_, I vowed, keeping a sharp eye on Moran as the courtroom was dismissed. But he stalked away through the doorway without a second glance at Watson. Thank God for small favors.

Watson and Lestrade looked at each other, shrugged, and then left the courtroom together. I soon followed in the wake of the rest of the spectators.

Once outside, I saw Lestrade put a friendly hand on Watson's shoulder as he bade him good-bye and set off down the street, and once more I quashed that painful jealousy that had reared its head within me yet again.

The Doctor was busy calling for a cab, and I took the opportunity to weave around him in the crowd to stand by the railings. I wanted to watch out for any of Moran's henchmen but also see where Watson was headed – I hoped that he would be headed back to his house in Kensington so that I might follow him and reveal myself at long last.

A cab pulled up for him at the curb and he hurried to meet it – so quickly, in fact, that he brushed up against me in the crowd, knocking down one of my stacks of books.

I was about to retrieve it, suddenly afraid that he would recognize me, when he bent down himself and handed it back to me with a quick, mumbled apology. This was more the Watson that I knew – the one who was ever the gentleman, no matter the circumstances.

To this day, I have no idea why I did it, but without thinking I impulsively swatted his arm as he handed me the books and turned away. Was that some strange mimicry in jealous response to my seeing Watson and Lestrade interact so comfortably a moment ago?

Perhaps Watson is not the only one who has changed in three years. That is not the first time in the last two days I have caught myself with my emotional guards let down almost completely.

I heard Watson give the cabbie the address of his home in Kensington. Rubbing my hands, a great excitement rose in my heart as I realized this was it – the climax of my hiatus, the culmination of this drama that I had been waiting to perform for nearly three years.

After this long time spent in a forced exile because of the bargain I had struck with the late Professor Moriarty, in which I had given up my freedom in exchange for Watson's safety, contingent on my return to London – I was at long last nearing the end of my lonely sojourn in faraway places.

And that, I realized a moment later, was a statement worthy of one of Watson's ridiculously florid memoirs. Time _must_ have mellowed me. I was not at all sure whether or not I liked the idea.

But regardless, I headed off at a brisk pace toward Kensington with a lighter heart than I had had all day.

I do not know how much later than Watson I arrived at his home in Kensington, but he had evidently started working on something in his consulting-room, for the maid would not allow me to enter. She walked down the hall to ask my friend if he would see a visitor, and I could hear the annoyed tone in his voice when he said his hours were clearly posted outside.

Again, I was a trifle uncomfortable at his unusually curt words – so unlike the tolerant, benevolent man I was used to seeing in these surroundings.

Realizing he probably would not willingly admit me, I got hold of my nerves and simply walked up behind the maid, carefully adding an appropriate wheeze to my wizened condition.

I was afraid if I looked him directly in the eye he might recognize me, and so I did not see his face when he sighed with irritation and told the maid to leave. The impatient tone I had heard, I now recognized as one he had used only a few times before in my presence at least, that clipped voice he used only when under some unusual strain.

That would, I hoped, change in a matter of moments.

I have absolutely no idea what I said to him or he to me during the next few seconds – I was too busily engaged in formulating a way to divert his attention so I could spring the surprise on his unsuspecting awareness. Finally I was able to draw his increasingly wearying attention to the glass-doored bookcase behind him.

The instant his back turned from me, I rose noiselessly from my seat, hurriedly yanked off the wig and false teeth, and straightened up to my normal height of slightly over six feet. I had only just completed the transformation when he turned back around.

And oh, I shall remember the look on his face until the day I leave this life.

"Watson, do you mind if I smoke a cigarette in your consulting-room?" I asked dramatically, my sheer, undisguised delight at finally dropping the deception making my tone more light than usual, and I felt a genuine grin of pleasure spread across my face as I spoke.

His eyes widened in a frozen expression of shock, and I saw his mouth noiselessly form my name.

I threw my hands out to him, all thoughts of emotional control forgotten in the very real happiness I felt at seeing my best friend once again and setting everything right – I welcomed the reunion with open arms, literally as well as figuratively.

But my thrilled excitement level instantly plummeted when his legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground in a heap.

I tried to get around the desk to catch him before he hit the floor, but I did not make it in time. Standing for a moment in abject shock, staring down at the motionless form of the only man in the world I could truly call a friend, I was stunned by what I had just witnessed.

For one terrifying instant I was afraid that my dramatic reappearance had thrown him into a heart attack or something of the sort, until I found that his pulse was slow but steady and his breathing regular.

It was only then that I realized I had been holding my own breath, and I let it out with a hiss. He had merely fainted, then.

Watson, fainting? The very notion was foreign to my mind. This man before me had, in his own words, "seen his companions hacked to pieces at Maiwand." He had stayed by my side through the most heinous atrocities committed in the capital and elsewhere. He had been with me faithfully through Roylott, Jack the Ripper, Culverton Smith, Moriarty, and countless others. Watson's nerve was second only to my own, or so I should have thought.

_Be gentle, Sherlock_, I heard Mycroft's voice ring in my head. I was filled instantly with regret for my dramatic actions. I should have deduced that his nerves were in no state for a reappearance of this sort. What kind of a detective was I?

Worse still, what kind of a friend was I?

My hands were shaking as I gently raised Watson to a half-sitting position, unbuttoned his collar, and tried to force some brandy past his lips, hoping desperately that the shock I had given him was not going to be seriously detrimental to his obviously fragile health.

The relief that filled me when he spluttered a bit, coughed, and then struggled to open his eyes was so strong I might have fainted myself. His vision remained vacant for a moment and then I saw the light of recognition flash through his features as he turned to look at me.

"Holmes?" his hoarse whisper was the most touching thing I had heard in a very long time.

"Yes, my dear fellow. I owe you a thousand apologies, Watson." _For more than you realize, _I thought. "I had absolutely no idea you would be so affected or I should never have made such a dramatic reappearance."

He was still staring at me like a man who sees hallucinations, and it took no great deduction to see that he was deathly afraid this was just another heartless dream come to plague him.

Reflexively at the thought, I grasped his ice-cold hand between both of my own, and gave him a wide smile.

"Does that feel like the grip of a ghost, my dear chap?"

His free hand touched my shoulder, tentatively as if in unbelief at first, and then the widest smile I have ever seen on his face seemed to fill the room, banishing the previous grief and despair.

And then he laughed, still with that look of abject surprise but also immense joy on his face. I gladdened at the sound, knowing then that he would not suffer any repercussions from my imprudent theatrics. I helped him gently to his feet and settled him back into his chair without saying much – what was there to say?

"Are you quite all right, Watson? I have given you a serious shock," I asked, feeling my forehead crease with worry.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Holmes," he said, his voice still shaking with disbelief, "but – how – what –"

"Easy, old fellow," I said, patting his shoulder and seating myself on the edge of his desk, "I shall explain all in due time. But I have a hard night's work for the both of us this evening, and perhaps it would be better if explanations waited until after that is finished."

_Oh, very well done indeed,_ the voice of my conscience sneered, _after three years of absence all you can say is that you have a hard night's work ahead of you. You can't even tell the man how glad you are to see him._

Why do I find it so hard to say what I think? I never seem to have that difficulty with the Scotland Yarders – they actually grow quite weary of listening to what I think of them. Why is it always so different with Watson?

He was looking at me expectantly. I realized he had probably just told me that he wanted his explanations _now_. Some things do _not_ change, Watson's innate impatience being one of them. Once more I patted his shoulder and then went to the chair opposite his desk, so that he would not have to stare up at me.

"You're sure you're all right?" I asked once more, to reassure myself as much as him.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said, sitting up straight and giving me his undivided attention.

He looked rather comical, his collar still unbuttoned and his hair in some dishevelment from his unceremonious drop to the floor – but I was thrilled beyond measure to see that the haunted look about his eyes had already begun to disappear, and the audible grief in his voice had begun to fade away.

The smile that came unbidden to my lips slowly receded as I remembered that now, I had to formulate a story that he would find plausible but that would not further cause damage to his open nerves. Why did I not plan this before now? I cursed mentally, as I realized I would simply have to fabricate it as necessary as I went along. With a sigh, I began my tale.

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**_To Be Continued! _**


	6. Webs of Deception

_**Webs of Deception**__**

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I took just a moment to collect myself, looking across the desk at Watson's face, fairly glowing with his eagerness to hear my tale. Poor chap, he was so overjoyed to see me that it had not yet hit him that I had neglected to tell him I had been alive and well for the last three years.

After wondering briefly what course to take in my explanation, I decided to simply jump into things and try to improvise my way through the tale. In retrospect, that probably was not the wisest course to take.

But somehow I could not bring myself to tell him the truth about Moran and the late Professor. Why, I yet do not know, other than the fact that I would rather die than reveal the emotions I had surrounding that awful ordeal. Selfish of me, it definitely was. But I simply could not. Not then. Not even now. Perhaps never.

I began my tale plausibly enough, reworking my discussion with Moriarty to revolve around me and not Watson. My account of our struggle at the edge of the Falls was completely genuine, at least. In all likelihood it was the only part of my story that was.

My nerve nearly shattered when my friend rose from his seat and showed me where he had actually _framed_ the note I left him at the Falls three years ago. Poor Watson! I felt such a wave of remorse sweep over me that I almost lost my grip completely. Sternly, I pulled myself back under a tight rein and continued.

I rattled onward in my tale, afraid that if I stopped talking my nerve would break utterly and I would slip and reveal the truth. And that would only leave more unanswered questions. It was a tale for another, very distant future day.

I vaguely was aware that Watson's nerves were calming down somewhat; he was buttoning his collar back into place – once the shock had worn off, he would be listening with more attention to detail to my story. I spoke a little faster, hoping that if he realized ought was amiss with the tale, he would forget about asking questions by the time I finished.

"I have only had one confidant during these years – my brother Mycroft." I heard myself say.

Fool! Why in the world had I told him that? Mycroft certainly would never have told him, and so why did I just dig myself a deeper grave than before by blurting out what was actually the truth?

I had only told partial truths elsewhere in my tale – why for the love of heaven had I just said that? And now I could not tell him _why_ Mycroft was my one contact without explaining the real reasons for my not returning to London.

I moaned inwardly, knowing that I had very badly put my foot in my mouth and that it was an egregious error that I might not be able to fully rectify.

Indeed, as I had feared, his face had clouded over, and he walked back around his desk and stood, looking at me with that expression that used, in our days at Baker Street, to make me willing to do anything in the world to get him to smile again. Was he using that desk unconsciously as a never-before-seen barrier between us?

Uncertainly, I rose to my feet to meet his eyes.

"I would have thought that I was at least as trustworthy as your brother, Holmes."

There was no accusation in his tone, only a deep, deep sense of hurt. And his simple words, true as I knew them to be, cut me to my heart. I looked away in abject shame.

_**More**__ trustworthy,_ I desperately wanted to blurt out, but I knew I could do nothing of the kind without explaining all.

I had gone too far to turn back now. After the instinctive "Of course you are!" that had burst from my mouth at his words, I now tried to say something that would assuage the pain I had just thoughtlessly inflicted on him.

"But you have a kinder heart," I said, then mentally kicking myself for my lack of gifted speech.

He raised one eyebrow sadly and then slumped back down in his chair, his manner considerably deflated from what it had been earlier at my reappearance. I took a deep breath and made a swift decision.

I was going to take a chance. A chance that if I told a part of the truth he would be his usual self and not question me when he realized I did not want to be questioned. Watson had changed, but somehow I doubted he had in that respect. At any rate, it was a chance I was going to take.

"Watson. I – cannot tell you all," I said slowly, noticing that he looked up with slight interest, "but I can tell you that it would have been too dangerous for you to have known the truth." I waited hesitantly for his reaction.

"Then - then I am glad you did not tell me, Holmes," he said quietly, "I would not have wished more danger upon you for anything, not even for my own peace of mind."

I nearly gasped out loud at his words – I had meant dangerous for _him_, not for me! But that simple, unselfish statement spoke volumes to me of what I had really missed in three years. Moments like these were the real things that drew me so strongly back to London, back home.

"My dear chap," I said softly, "I meant it would be dangerous for you, not for me. And that is all that I am able to tell you just now."

He looked at me in surprise, his eyes searching my face as if trying to make one of my own deductions. Then the hurt I had seen in them a moment ago lessened, and his features softened.

"Very well, Holmes. We shall not speak of the past," he said at last.

"Thank you," said I, oddly relieved that I had no more deceptions to come up with.

I went on with the part of my story he could be permitted to know, of what had happened upon my return to Baker Street.

I saw him laugh out loud for the first time in three years when I told him of Mrs. Hudson's hysterical reaction, and the sound warmed my heart considerably.

"And so it was that I found myself sitting in my own old chair, in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the opposite chair which he has so often adorned," I finished my tale with deep truthfulness.

He grinned at me, and some of the old familiar sparkle returned to his eyes.

"Are you still in possession of your Army revolver, Watson?"

"Yes, I believe I have it somewhere!" he said, frowning as if trying to remember its location.

"You may need it this evening," I informed him, "I have a piece of work for both of us tonight – hard, dangerous work – but if we bring it to a successful conclusion, it will justify a man's life on this planet."

"I beg you to tell me about it, Holmes!" he pleaded, but I could not. Not without revealing all that I had done so much work to hide thus far.

"No, you will see and hear enough before the morning," I said, walking over to the couch by the window. I cautiously peeped through the curtains to see if I had been followed or if someone were watching the house. It appeared not.

Either Moran was biding his time, preparing to get rid of me before coming after Watson (which I fervently hoped), or he was choosing his sentries with more care. I rather believed the former. Why else would he have been watching Baker Street so closely?

Relief, coupled with the let-down of the emotional high I had been running on for the past forty-eight hours, suddenly washed over me like a torrent. I sank down on the leather couch with a creaking of springs.

"Watson, would you mind if I occupied your couch for a few hours? The sea was dreadfully rough during the Channel crossing; and the prospect of seeing London again added to the pleasure of reuniting with my oldest and dearest friend made sleep quite an impossibility for me the last two days," I said, eyeing him for his reaction.

His face transformed with that wide smile he had worn when he realized I was alive for the first time.

"Of course, my dear Holmes! My bedroom is at your disposal –"

"No, no, this shall do me very nicely. Thank you, Watson." I lay back on the couch, throwing the afghan over me carelessly. I was indeed more tired than I could remember being in quite some time.

Another reason why I did not make a habit of emotional demonstrations – the relapse afterwards was so disconcertingly tiring.

I vaguely heard Watson rummaging around in his desk, I supposed for his revolver. Then I heard his exclamation of satisfaction upon finding it and he started to call my name but then ceased.

He must have thought I was already drowsing. And I was too tired to tell him otherwise.

My thoughts were drifting fast into unconsciousness, and I did not hear another sound until he gently pulled the blanket up over my clasped hands, thinking me already asleep.

And with that, I drifted into a more pleasant slumber than I had been privy to for some time.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	7. Painful Memories

_**Painful Memories**_

**A/N: Thanks to _Pompey_ for reminding me to put in a word about poor, overlooked Inspector Lestrade. He really was a good friend to the Doctor in those Hiatus years, I should think. _KCS_**

* * *

I awoke a while later, feeling much refreshed – that little nap had been the best sleep I had had in I did not know how long. I lay on Watson's couch for a moment with my eyes still closed, reveling in the fact that I was once more back in my city, with my best friend, and about to rid this our domain of the most dangerous man within its borders.

I opened my eyes to see Watson, seated at his desk, quietly scribbling away in an old leather-backed journal. A smile curved my lips as I watched for a moment while he looked into space, searching for the correct word I assumed, and then began to furiously scratch away once more.

The scene was oddly familiar and comforting – how many times had he been in exactly that position at his desk in Baker Street during those years we lived together?

I briefly wondered when a good time would be to ask him to move back in with me; realizing his nerves must be in a similar state to my own, I decided to leave that idea for a while at least.

I sat up, stretching my stiffened limbs, and then grinned at Watson as he looked up at me.

"Writing it up already, Watson? And we haven't even captured the criminal yet?" I teased him, standing up and walking over to the desk.

He self-consciously shoved the book into his pocket, and I had to laugh.

"Could I impose upon one of your servants to send a note to Scotland Yard for me, Watson?" I asked him, appropriating a piece of paper from his desk and beginning to formulate the message I intended for the officials to receive.

"Yes, of course," Watson replied, rising and ringing the bell, "what are you telling them?" He moved over to see what I was writing.

"No, no," I said, playfully holding it out of his reach, "you must allow me to have my surprises, Watson!"

"Oh, really, Holmes!" he laughed, a trifle unused to my light manner, and tried to peek again.

"Only if you show me what you were writing just now," I said, pointing a forefinger at his rather bulging pocket.

He flushed nervously. "Never mind," he muttered hastily, turning to the maid who had just walked in. I stifled a laugh at his expense.

"Send this gentleman's note to Scotland Yard right away," he said, gesturing to me. The girl dropped a quick curtsey and turned to leave.

"Oh, and please tell the cook that I should like a cold supper served as soon as possible," he added, looking at me for approval.

"Definitely," I agreed, surprised that I was actually hungry for the first time in two days.

Excitement had made me forego breakfast and lunch this day, and I would also be glad to see Watson eating something. Even a bumbling Scotland Yard official could have deduced that he had not been eating properly. Not that I am a paragon in that respect myself.

When the door had shut behind the maid, Watson turned to me. "Did you sleep well?" he asked solicitously, "you rather looked as if you needed it."

"I did," I freely admitted, "What time is it?"

"Near half-past seven," he replied. I started in surprise – had I really slept for five hours?

"Yes, you were quite unconscious to the world for a good five hours," Watson said.

"Really, Watson, wherever did you learn to deduce a man's thoughts from his features?"

We both laughed, the very welcome sound bringing such a sense of nostalgia back to me that for the first time in a long time, I felt perfectly happy.

We spent the dinner reminiscing about past cases and the olden days of our association, and toward the end of the meal I saw that Watson's eyes had truly begun to lose that despairing, haunted quality, and that he was really quite rapidly returning to his former self.

But as we fell into a comfortable silence over our coffee, I saw his eyes grow sad once more, and he looked across the dining room to the photograph of his late wife that sat on the table by the fire. His gaze grew slightly wistful, slightly pained, and I knew he was thinking of that more recent loss.

I laid a hand on his arm. "Watson, I was in France when I heard the news," I said softly, "I apologize for not being able to offer you my condolences and my support when you so desperately needed it."

He did not turn to look at me, but he sighed softly. "I understand, Holmes. And I do thank you for at least checking up on me occasionally."

"I had Mycroft checking on you, also, Watson," I assured him, "if something had happened because of the remains of the Moriarty gang, a telegram would have brought me back as fast as man's transportation could have got me here."

He smiled briefly. "Mary would be so glad to know that you are safe," was his next statement.

"I am sure she knows, somehow, my dear chap," I said sincerely, "and if, as believers think, she can hear me, I promise her I shall do my best to - to - keep you out of trouble."

I had almost said what was really on my mind – to make sure no harm came to him from Moran or anyone else. I had been willing in '91, and still was, to lay down my life for that cause. But had I said just that, Watson would have thought it abnormal in the extreme, coming from my cold, precise intellect.

Watson was silent, and I was just berating myself for what I thought was a foolish, empty platitude – why had that come out of _my_ mouth, of all people? Where had that even come from in my mind? – but he turned to look at me, and smiled around the tears that had formed in his eyes.

"That was very kind, Holmes, and I do thank you," he said sincerely.

Our tête-à-tête was growing rather uncomfortable for me, and I was glad when the maid came in to clear the dishes. The clock struck nine as we arose from the table, and I knew it was time to be on our way.

Our night's adventure was about to begin.

* * *

_Scotland Yard, 8:15 pm._

Inspector Lestrade shut the door of his office with a tired sigh. _Willful murder by person or persons unknown._ Well, of course! Even Gregson could have told the public that!

Why had this case fallen to him, anyhow? Why couldn't it have been Gregson or Bradstreet's turn to go out? Or even that upstart, cocky young rookie Stanley Hopkins?

Why had the Adair murder been his case? Lestrade stalked moodily down the darkened corridor with a resigned air, thinking of what had been said and done at the inquest.

Tomorrow the real work of the case would start, interrogating witnesses again and all that sort of thing. Not to mention trying to work out how the deuce the shot had been fired in that strange manner.

Not an appealing, active task for an aspiring police inspector.

Lestrade's thoughts turned briefly to Dr. Watson's testimony. He had felt quite sorry for the man when an insensitive fool of a news reporter had callously asked him how the Doctor thought Mr. Sherlock Holmes would have investigated this case. Lestrade had wanted to clout the man for his insensitivity, but the Doctor had merely ignored the upstart, a troubled look in his eyes.

The Inspector paused at the front desk of the station, where he saw a young sergeant and a constable discussing something in low tones. As he walked up, they snapped to attention and saluted.

"What's going on here, Roberts?" Lestrade asked.

"We've been given a sort of a prank, sir," the constable on duty replied, holding out a folded piece of paper, "a boy delivered this just before you came out here, sir."

Lestrade took the note and unfolded it. Then every vestige of color drained from his thin face.

"Inspector? Are you all right, sir?"

The officer said nothing for a moment. Then a delighted grin lit up his face and he snapped at once into his normal self, barking curt orders.

"Roberts, find Sergeant Cummings and meet me in my office at once. We have an assignment. Don't just stand there, man! Get moving!"

* * *

**_To Be Continued, of course. _**


	8. The Game's Afoot

**_The Game Is Afoot_**

* * *

I stopped in the vestibule of Watson's house to retrieve my hat and coat. He snatched his from the rack as well, and I could see from the sparkle in his eyes that he was even more excited than I was. With a smile, I turned to face him.

"Ready?"

"Ready, Holmes!"

I opened the door and we both slipped outside into the darkness. I led him through a few side streets until I was sure we were not followed, and then we hailed a cab a few blocks from his home. All this time he had not said a word, and neither had I.

We had no need to – even after three years, we functioned together like a well-oiled machine. The game truly was afoot this night. I felt it, and so, I know, did Watson.

We had been sitting in the cab for some minutes in silence, watching our London go by around us, when I turned to him, giving him a sly look.

"You know, Watson, I am not likely to disappear if you take your eyes off me for a moment."

I was only teasing him, but I saw a flush of embarrassment come over his face as he realized I had been aware of his constant glances in my direction, as if to reassure himself that I truly was alive and beside him.

He started to mumble an apology but I stopped him.

"I'm sorry, my dear chap, I was only teasing you. It was a thoughtless thing to say, considering the events of the last three years. I am truly sorry."

Be careful, Sherlock. Things have changed. Mycroft was wiser than I gave him credit for at times.

Watson was silent for a moment, and then he spoke, almost to himself instead of me.

"You know, I still have a hard time believing that it is not some lovely dream, that I shall not wake up momentarily and find myself alone in a dark, cold house," he whispered, not looking at me but out at the scenery, "it will take some getting used to, you know."

I laid a hand on his arm, and he turned to look at me quizzically.

"It is real, Watson, I promise," I said, sounding foolish even to my own ears, but not knowing what else to say.

He looked at me for just a moment, and then glanced down at my hand, which was still resting on his arm. Realizing that my uncharacteristic gestures were still puzzling him slightly, I withdrew and sat back against the cushions. Now it was my turn to be embarrassed.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Holmes," I heard him say quietly, with just a hint of teasing in his voice.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Once again, Watson had read my thoughts.

"My dear Watson, you have either gotten much sharper over the last three years or I have changed quite a bit," I said in mock exasperation.

"Change is not always a bad thing, my dear fellow," he replied, settling back in the seat.

And after that neither of us felt the need to talk much, drifting into a comfortable silence like those nights so long ago in Baker Street where we would live our lives complacently careless of our surroundings.

Once, I sensed Watson peeking at me yet again, and I turned swiftly and caught him red-handed. And red-faced, for that matter. We both laughed out loud for several minutes afterwards, unable to stop – I have no doubt the cabbie had doubts as to his fares' sanities.

When we were close enough I stopped the cab and jumped down, followed by Watson. It amused me that, out of old habit when in my company, he reached in his pocket to pay the fare – it had always fallen to him when we were on a case; I normally was so preoccupied I would forget my own keys if he did not remind me.

It was not until we were walking down a dark alley that he remembered.

"Half a moment, Holmes! You ordered that cab – why the deuce did I pay for it?"

I laughed, his exasperation yet another thing to make this night a pleasant and happy one – some things truly never change.

He laughed along with me and dropped the subject, content to follow me wherever I was leading him. For quite some minutes I led him in the most roundabout way possible to the alley behind the houses on the opposite side of Baker Street, taking great pains to assure myself that we were not followed.

We were in the clear, it appeared. My mounting excitement must have been contagious to my companion, for I could hear his breathing quicken as we walked.

Or, I thought a moment later, he could just be exhausted by my rapid pace and be too proud to tell me so.

"Watson? Are you all right back there?"

His answering yes was slightly breathless, and so I halted for a moment.

"Watson, why didn't you tell me I walking too quickly?"

In the glow of the streetlight, I could see his features clearly, outlined in surprise.

"Well?"

"Because when you are on a case, you are oblivious to your surroundings. I'm not sure you would have even heard me – you certainly never used to," he replied simply, matter-of-factly, not comprehending my actions.

Was it possible that I was the one who had changed the most? The thought unnerved me more than I wished to admit.

"My apologies, Doctor. Please be sure you tell me from now on, even if you think I will not hear you," I said, not knowing how to handle Watson's response. The look of puzzlement on his face faded once more to that enigmatic smile he had given me in the cab.

"Right, Holmes. Now we'd better head on or we shall be arrested as suspicious characters."

"What do you mean, we, Watson? You are the only one who is armed!"

"Yes, but do you really think the local bumbling constable on the beat is going to believe you when you say you're Sherlock Holmes? You're dead, Holmes!"

I sniggered in a quite undignified fashion. " 'Blimey, gov', I never pinched a bloke wot claimed to be a dead detective,' " I said in a ridiculously accented Cockney dialect.

Watson dissolved into a soft peal of laughter behind me, and I realized yet again how much I really had missed this. Those moments when we could relax and simply enjoy each other's company.

We had almost reached the alley leading to the back entrance of Camden House. The alley was pitch-black, and Watson ran into my back when I stopped at the end to listen for pursuers.

"Sorry," he whispered, not knowing why I had stopped.

"Shhh," I returned, listening once more.

There was no sound.

I had done it – Moran did not know where we were. Before the night was over, he would have walked into my trap and the greatest threat to the greatest man I knew, the one obediently remaining silent behind me, would be forever removed from our lives.

The thought filled me with intense anticipation.

* * *

**Will be continued...**


	9. To Trap a Tiger

_**To Trap a Tiger**_

* * *

I moved with quiet swiftness to the little path leading to the back door of Camden House. When I felt Watson beside me in the dark, I pulled out my jemmy and started feeling around for the lock on the door.

"Here, Holmes," Watson whispered, nudging my hand down to where his finger was.

Three years has done nothing but improve his understanding of my wants and wishes. I still stand amazed, and I have the feeling that he will continue to surprise me so in the future.

"Where did you get the key?" he whispered.

"I, Sherlock Holmes, use a key? Really, Watson!"

"Yes, stupid question. Sorry for insulting your skills at felony."

I smiled in the dark at his pawky humor. Then the lock clicked back under my hands and the door creaked open on rusty hinges. I had already been through the house yesterday before leaving for the courtroom; and it was a good thing, because not a single spot of light could be seen anywhere.

"Watson, stick close to me – this house is old and shaky," I whispered, checking once more to see if we had been followed or watched in any way. I could sense nothing.

"Right," I heard Watson whisper back, once he gave me time to listen for pursuit. I reached back and grasped his wrist, pulling him into the house and shutting the door.

We moved carefully through the pitch darkness, I leading Watson through the house to the old staircase. I had tested it earlier – completely sound, just rather old and creaking.

"Stairs, Watson."

We climbed slowly – once he lost his footing for a moment and my hand clenched on his arm. And a moment later he stubbed his toe and I heard a muffled curse. Other than that we reached the top without mishap, and we were both grateful to finally see a small faded shading of light at the end of a hall, where an opened door revealed a window.

"Twenty-one," Watson whispered, almost to himself.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty-one what?"

"Steps, Holmes."

I laughed softly. "Do you now count the steps on every staircase you climb, Watson?"

"Yes, of course," he replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Whatever for?"

We began to make our way down the hall to the open door.

"Because if you ever asked me again, I did not want to be told yet another time that I see, and do not observe!" In the pale light I could see by his grin that he was only half-serious. I chuckled and walked toward the open door.

We entered the room, and I gestured to the window.

"That is our vantage point, my dear Watson. Draw closer, but make sure you do not show yourself!"

We edged up to the window and took our positions on each side. As of old habit, he took the left side and I the right. I wondered abstractedly how many other things we did unconsciously for and with each other.

"Do you know where we are?" I asked softly.

"Surely – that is Baker Street!" he said excitedly, peering out of the clouded window.

"A stunning deduction, Doctor. You both see and observe."

"Really, Holmes!"

"In all seriousness, Watson, this is our box from which we will watch tonight's performance. Either our quarry will appear on the street or he might just come into this house. Either way, I have him, Watson!"

"Suppose he gets away if he stays in the street?"

"Not a chance. See those suspicious looking characters in the doorway down there?"

"Yes, I noticed them at once." I could not tell in the dim light if he was being sarcastic or if he really _had_ noticed them.

"My note to the Yard."

"You're trusting the Yard to handle the criminal if he gets to the street? You really _have_ mellowed, Holmes!"

"_Please_, Watson," I growled. "Look up at the windows of our old sitting room. I want to see if three years have entirely taken away my power to surprise you."

He drew closer to the window and obediently looked up at the sitting room. Then I saw for the second time today an expression of shocked amazement on his expressive face.

"It really is rather good, don't you think?"

"Good heavens, Holmes! It's marvelous! What is it?"

"A bust, in wax. I had it made in France for this exact purpose. Mrs. Hudson is up there with it, making changes every so often in its position, etc., so that it will fool our quarry of this evening into thinking I am up there, when in reality I am waiting for him to rear his venomous head!"

My voice hardened as I thought of Moran and all he and his master had done to me and the man standing with me. It was because of Colonel Moran that I had been condemned to wander the earth for three years, until he made this mistake that I vowed would cost him his freedom. I had traded his freedom in 1891 for Watson's safety – and how dearly that bargain had cost both of us!

I saw Watson looking at me strangely, and I hoped now would not be one of those times when he seemed to know what I was thinking. I knew he already only partially believed my story of earlier. He said nothing, however, but merely glanced back up at the room, where the shadow on the blind had moved slightly.

Then suddenly, we both heard it. The creaking floorboards of that staircase. I had been right – Moran was coming here!

Again, there was no need for words as we functioned together as we always had, scuttling back behind the open door into the shadows. As always, he on the inside and I on the outside. I heard a dull click as he cocked the revolver that had appeared in his hand.

And it was only moments later that I heard Moran's footsteps in the hall outside.

I realized with a little surprise that I was trembling, I suppose with excitement but also in trying to control the deep rage I had for this man, who had been the reason for my three year exile and Watson's deep grief because of it. Watson's free hand clamped on my shoulder in a tight grip, willing me to get a hold on my nerves.

Once I had steadied myself, he wordlessly removed his grip. Yet another instance of how well we understood each other.

Moran entered the room – I would know that figure anywhere. And in his hands he carried what would look to most like a fancy walking stick – but I knew it to be the main components to VonHerder's fantastic air-gun.

We watched, holding our breaths, as he assembled the weapon and loaded it. Then he opened the window just a fraction, and looked up at the windows of 221b. Winding the gun in that peculiar fashion necessary for it to function, he laid the gun on the sill and took careful aim at my silhouette in the window.

I noiselessly removed my hat and placed my gloves inside it, preparing to charge the man as soon as he committed himself. Realizing this was my fight, and mine alone, Watson gently took the hat from me and noiselessly took a step back.

There was a small thud, and then we heard the glass from the Baker Street window tinkle as it broke. In the next instant, my control completely snapped and I hurled myself on the man who had been responsible for my exile.

All the hatred I had felt for Moriarty that fateful day in April 1891, when he told me he would kill Watson if I did not drop the case, and all the following days when we were fleeing for our – his – life, all the anger and bitterness I had been harboring toward the dead Professor and this, his chief lieutenant, suddenly came to the fore and fueled my raging attack on the Colonel.

In consequence, I lost my focus in the fight. He had me up against the wall, choking me with his stick, when Watson came to my rescue.

Moran saw him coming and with a growl of rage and a well aimed blow, sent him crashing into the corner. Watson's gun went skittering across the floor and he grabbed for it as I leapt on Moran, my anger only increasing at the man for what he had done.

He threw me off and for a moment we stared at each other, breathing heavily. It was then that he fully recognized who I was – not just some man who had jumped him in the dark, but the one who had given him his freedom in 1891 in exchange for Watson's life. The one who had returned to England to take that freedom away from him, for good.

And his own hatred made him ten times stronger than before.

I barely had time to brace myself when he came at me, his eyes glaring murderously. I realized, too late, that I was no match for the man physically. He had both hands around my throat and was choking me – my vision was starting to blur and I could not breathe, when suddenly the pressure was released.

Thankfully, I was gasping in air when I heard Watson blow – a police whistle? Where had he gotten that? I struggled to sit up, my vision clearing rapidly now that I could breathe.

Watson got behind my shoulders and helped me to my feet just as the Yarders came rushing down the hall and into the room. Moran was hauled off the floor, growling and swearing, a large bruise forming on his bald forehead, where I deduced Watson's revolver had made impact.

"Mr. – Holmes?" the thin, ferret-faced inspector gasped out breathlessly.

"Lestrade, how are you?"

"I could scarcely believe it when I got your message! But – it really is you, isn't it, sir?"

Watson, standing beside me, nodded to the Inspector. I had been watching Moran, growing more angry by the minute, and the man was glaring daggers at both me and my dear friend. Watson was unaware of how much danger he had been in from this man – Moran was capable of anything, as well I knew.

In my rage, the tirade I launched against the Colonel grew too heated and I nearly lost all control for the second time that night. Watson's firm hand on my shoulder did nothing to stop my furious anger; Lestrade took a step backward and Watson was puzzled, not understanding why I was so very angry with this, the last remaining member of Moriarty's staff.

Once more, Watson tried to remonstrate with me, and this time I calmed enough to listen and quieted down somewhat. Lestrade listened with interest to my saying that Moran was responsible for Adair's murder and that I wanted my name to stay out of the matter, etc. Then he ordered Moran to be taken into custody.

Before he was hauled away by the police, Moran turned to where I stood, finally the victor, beside Watson, the unwitting cause of all the danger.

"I should have killed both of you when I had the chance, Professor's orders or no Professor's orders," he hissed through clenched teeth, "I shall repay my debt someday, you may be sure of it, Holmes! And in the way the Professor originally intended to!"

"You even attempt it, and I shall shoot you down in cold blood, Moran," I vowed icily, feeling a chill at my heart with the dread knowledge of what he meant. Thank God he was getting put where he would never have the chance to harm Watson.

The man himself was looking at me, not understanding my cool, matter-of-fact statement that I would kill the man if he tried. Poor Watson. There were so many things he had yet to understand. But, as always, I volunteered no information. And as always, he asked for none.

But as I watched a still-shocked Lestrade haul Moran down the stairs, he nudged me gently and handed me back my hat and gloves, which he had picked up from the floor. And this time I did not churlishly shake off the hand he hesitantly placed on my arm.

It was only when I could no longer hear Moran's enraged outcries that we left that cursed room for a more welcoming one across the street.

* * *

**_To be concluded!_**


	10. One Thing Missing

We stepped out the front door of Camden House into the brisk night air of Baker Street, its open clearness quite soothing after the closeness of that old house. I took a deep breath and started across the street, Watson close on my heels.

On the steps of 221b, I stopped and looked back at him. In the dim street light, I could not tell if his eyes were sparkling with excitement or glistening with unshed tears. My hand on the doorknob, I stopped and turned as he came up beside me on the steps.

"Ready, Watson?" I asked, as I had earlier in the evening when we left his house.

"Ready, Holmes!" he was fairly bouncing with excitement.

I placed my hand on the doorknob and was about to open it –

When our dear landlady yanked it open with such force that I nearly fell into the hall. I heard Watson's rather undignified snicker behind me as I stumbled against the wall just inside the door.

"Mind that last step, Holmes, it's rather a long one," he said, throwing a congratulatory look at my – soon to be _our_, I hoped – smug landlady. I scowled, but only in jest – nothing could bring a frown to my face at this moment!

"Dr. Watson, it's so good to see you, Sir!" she was saying effusively.

Watson, ever the gentlemen, removed his hat and bowed. "You are looking as beautiful as ever, Mrs. Hudson. Even after the shock I am sure Mr. Holmes gave you earlier today?"

I elbowed Watson warningly. Mrs. Hudson glared at me for a moment, and then turned back with a sweet and innocent expression to my friend.

"Shall we close the door, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked in exasperation.

With a sniff, the good lady did so, and we were left alone in the hall. I hung my coat and hat on the rack and then took Watson's as well. We looked at each other for a moment at the foot of the steps.

"After you, Mr. Holmes," he said, his tone teasing.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," I replied, keeping a straight face with difficulty – had our lives always been this much pure fun? Or had I really changed my cold, aloof attitude with time?

That was a philosophical question for another day. A rainy or foggy London day with no case to solve. For now, I was perfectly happy to be treading those – how many? Seventeen? – steps with my dearest friend, back up to the sitting room that was the heart of so many memories for both of us.

We reached the top within moments.

"Seventeen," I heard Watson mutter behind me.

"You know, I should have had one of them taken out if I'd known you were going to count them," said I jestingly, leading the way past my bedroom door to the closed one leading to our sitting room.

We paused at the door, and I looked at him. "How long?" I asked.

His eyes clouded over for a moment, and he thought.

"May 15 of '91," he whispered at last, "one week after I returned to England. Mrs. Hudson wanted to have some kind of private memorial service since there was no public one, and she asked that I perform it. I have not been inside the house since that day."

"Well, my dear fellow," I gently said, "shall we?"

He nodded, the sorrow in his eyes turning to something akin to deep excitement.

I flung open the door, and we stood for a moment in silence in the doorway, taking in the scene before us.

Mrs. Hudson had lit a fire, which was very welcome now, considering the draught coming in from the broken window, and the room was filled with its cheery glow. It was probably nearly a minute before either of us moved.

Then from behind us, we heard Mrs. Hudson.

"Mr. Holmes, if you please! You are cluttering up the hall!"

Like two shamefaced schoolboys, we stumbled into the room and got out of the good woman's way – she was carrying a tray containing a steaming teapot and two cups.

Setting it down on the table, she turned with a disdainful sniff and left, shutting the door behind her.

I stared at the closed door. Was my memory failing me, or had she changed as well? I heard Watson laugh a few feet away.

" _'Mr. Holmes, if you please! You are cluttering up the hall!'_ " he chortled.

"I say, Watson, was she always like that?"

"Yes, my dear fellow" he assured me, "you were just too self-centred to notice it before now."

I turned and looked at him, and his face assumed that innocent what-did-I-say expression.

I smiled ruefully and turned my attention to the large hole in my poor likeness near the window. Watson and I discussed the gun, which I had brought along with me from the street, and I showed him how it worked. He was sighting it at the painting over the fireplace when Mrs. Hudson returned.

"Doctor! Not in the house!" she screeched, "I still have not found a way to disguise Mr. Holmes's handiwork on the far wall!"

We both flushed with embarrassment, and Watson hastily put the gun down on my desk. I repressed a snicker at Mrs. Hudson's vehemence and quickly hid my face by looking for the bullet, which I assumed had hit the wall by the door somewhere.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the unused teapot, rolled her eyes, poured two cups of tea and left them, taking the rest of the dishes with her. I was fumbling around the sideboard when she dug the tray into my back.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson? I really cannot find that bullet, Watson, I know it must be here somewhere –"

"A word, if you please?" I turned around and she without warning handed me the tray of dishes. Startled, I took it, and the good lady fished round in her pocket for a moment and produced the elusive piece of lead.

"Here it is – I picked it up off the carpet."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are becoming quite indispensable," I said, without a shred of sarcasm. I opened the door for the woman and then shut it behind her.

I showed it to Watson and explained how the air gun could fire a soft revolver bullet, making it impossible to trace it to a rifle of that sort.

"You seem to know a good deal about the gun, Holmes," he said, "Is this the one you said you were afraid of when you closed my shutters that evening before we left London?"

"The same, Watson. You see how accurate it can be, especially when aimed by the Professor's trusted Chief of Staff. Make a long arm, Watson, and toss me my book of _M's_, would you?"

He turned to the cabinet behind me, selected the volume, and handed it to me. I showed him the page where I had written beside Moran's name, _The second most dangerous man in London_.

We discussed the Adair murder, and I was inordinately pleased to learn that Watson's opinion as to the motive for the murder matched my own in every respect. We were interrupted in our discussion by the arrival of our landlady.

This time, it was not tea she carried, but three glasses of champagne. Watson and I looked at each other and grinned. Then he walked round the couch and I jumped on it to meet the good lady.

As we shared the toast, celebrating my return to life and return to home, I felt that the evening could not get better.

After we had thanked the good woman and she had gone to bed at long last, I looked at the clock when it struck midnight. Watson sprawled out comfortably on the couch, put his hands behind his head, and looked at me.

"Tired, Holmes?"

"No, I confess to being more wide awake than I have been in a long time," I replied, my nerves still running high after the long day and trying evening, pleasant though most of the events had been.

Watson put his feet up over the arm of the sofa – how Mrs. Hudson would be annoyed if she knew! – and studied me thoughtfully.

"So, Holmes, what was Tibet like? Is it as beautiful as Switzerland?"

I sat down cross-legged in my chair and began to detail some of my travels to him. For several hours we talked of anything and everything – my Hiatus, Tibet, Mecca, Egypt, Moran, VonHerder, past cases – we had three years of conversation to make up for!

Eventually, around three in the morning, I began to sort out some of the files and books I had brought back with me from my travels and, to Watson's surprise, I actually put them away in the correct places.

When he thought I was safely engaged in organizing, I saw him take his journal out of his pocket and begin scribbling in it once again. Smiling, I let him get so engrossed in his writing that he noticed nothing else, and then I crept up behind him to sneak a look at what he was writing.

Perhaps I really have changed in three years, and I am not as subtle as I used to be, for he heard me and snapped the volume shut before I could see more than a few words.

"Really, Holmes!"

"Oh, come now, Watson, let me see it," I teased.

"No!" he held it out of my reach.

"Be a sport, old chap!"

"No," he laughed, swatting my hand away as if I were a pesky insect. I finally laughed with him and gave up the attempt, going back to my tidying up.

It was about a half hour later when a small thump drew my attention away from my records of Lhassa, and I looked back in Watson's direction.

The journal had fallen from his hands to the floor, and he was sound asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

Poor fellow, he had to be even more tired than I was, after such a nerve-wracking day. That, added to his poor health, made it a miracle that he had remained alert even this long. His adrenaline must, as I could feel mine beginning to do, have faded rapidly after the denouement of the case tonight.

I went to my room to retrieve a blanket, for the fire was dying and the room was growing chilly. Spreading it over Watson gently so as not to waken him, I picked up the journal and was about to lay it on the table when my curiosity overcame me and, I am rather ashamed to say, I peeked.

Only at the last page; I am not so heartless a fellow as to read the entire private thoughts of the man sleeping before me. He had come as far in his narrative to our arrival back at Baker Street.

_As I lie here on this old familiar sofa, I am reminded of just how badly I have missed all this – this house, this room, and the figure of the man organizing files across the room from me. I still find it hard to believe that this is reality – it sounds so much like one of my own "ridiculously romantic" memoirs. _

_I dearly hope that Holmes wants me to return to Baker Street to live, for I am rather loathe to remain in my empty house for much longer. What I shall do with my practice, I have no idea. But I do hope that I may move back in as soon as possible, for I know that this is and always will be home to me, for as long –_

Here there was a long scratch in the paper, and it took no deduction to see that was the juncture where he had given up trying to fight sleep.

A mischievous feeling overcame me, and I strode to my desk, hoping Mrs. Hudson would have thought to replace the three-year-old ink in the inkwell. Not so. I found a dull, old pencil, however, and wrote an addendum at the bottom of that page in my dear friend's journal.

_At the risk of spouting quotations to a man of letters, my dear Watson, I should like to remind you of what George Moore has said, 'A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.'_

_I should be very glad if you could find it suitable to return to Baker Street at your earliest possible convenience, my dear chap, because when I came home this afternoon, I found one important thing missing that I dreadfully need. Please do make it soon._

_And forgive me for peeking; I simply could not resist the urge._

_Some things simply do not change with time._

_SH_


End file.
